


Proof

by HandsomeManExpress (DangerousCommieSubversive)



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Gen, Grooming, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 21:09:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5220923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerousCommieSubversive/pseuds/HandsomeManExpress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The care and feeding of werewolf boyfriends sometimes include dragging them to the groomers even though they don't want you to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proof

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raehex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raehex/gifts).



“Hi, yeah, do you guys have space for a full grooming service with Furminator today?”

Dean, hunched over pancakes and bacon at the breakfast table, sits bolt upright. His eyes narrow. “Did someone just mention grooming?”

“Nah.” Roman swallows a mouthful of food and shifts to obscure the view of Seth on the phone. “You must've imagined it. You sleep well?”

“He's a mix. Husky and German shepherd. God, yeah, I know—hair _everywhere._ Yeah, his shots are up to date, we have papers.”

“Seth's on the phone with the groomers, isn't he? You guys are trying to get me _groomed._ ”

Roman rolls his eyes. “Don't be ridiculous.”

“ _Very_ well-behaved. He's a little mouthy, but if you scratch his ears he'll just roll right over—no, he doesn't bite. He's a big dope, really.”

Dean glares past Roman's shoulder. “I hate you both. You know that?”

“My name's Seth. Seth Rollins—oh! Thanks, that's very kind of you. And the dog's name is—” he glances over at Dean. “His name's Mox.”

“I'm going to kill you,” Dean says as Seth comes back into the kitchen and sits down. “Slowly. With my teeth.”

Seth snickers and reaches over, starting to scratch Dean behind one ear before Dean can duck away. “Aw, who's a good boy.”

 _“Hate,”_ Dean says, leaning in to Seth's hand.

“Gonna get you all cleaned up so you stop blowing coat everywhere! You'll like that, won't you, buddy?”

 _“Haaaaate.”_ Dean's eyes are closed. His tongue lolls out of his mouth.

Roman pulls out his phone and snaps a picture. “This is fucking golden. I'm posting this on Twitter.”

“You're on _notice,_ Roman—oh god, yeah, right there.”

* * *

 

“Shit, no, not in the _house_ —”

Too late. Dean shifts in the living room, grumbling the whole while. Loose tufts of fur waft off him as he settles into the wolf skin and cling, landing on the couch and chairs, the carpet—everywhere.

He shakes himself and starts to scratch, sending _more_ fure flying, and Roman says, “ _This._ This is why you're going to see the groomer. This summer coat bullshit has to stop.” He plucks a tuft right off Dean's neck and holds it up so Dean can see. “We can't fucking live like this. It's either that or we sell you to a farm where they can make this shit into yarn or something.”

Dean _whuffs_ and then sneezes.

Seth takes advantage of the sneeze to grab Dean by the scruff of the neck and the collar goes on before Dean can protest. Tags jangle under the wolf's chin as he shoots Seth a reproachful look.

 _“What?”_ Seth clips the leash onto the collar. “We can't really take you out without it.”

Dean manages, via careful use of eyebrows, to look _deeply_ offended.

“Come on, let's go get you fancied up.”

* * *

 

Despite how much Dean pretends to hate being _treated_ like a dog, he does love to _act_ like one. Especially when kids are involved. It's a fairly short trip to the grooming salon, but they almost don't make it at all—Dean keeps dragging them off course, snuffling at the hands of delighted children and smelling every telephone pole and fire hydrant he sees. At one crosswalk he has a brief face-off with a neighbor's Shar Pei, which woofs furiously at him from the safety of a fenced-in yard.

Roman groans. “Don't terrorize the neighbors.”

Dean rolls his eyes.

The grooming salon is called Poochie Palace, and there's a picture of a chihuahua on the sign. It's lavender. Dean looks horrified; he shies away as they approach the door, only entering once Seth threatens to make him into a rug.

Inside everything that's not easily-washed tile is lavender and pink, and the dogs on the tables are little and cute—Shih-tzus and Westies and beasts of that stripe. Dean lets out a low, disgusted _uff._

The woman at the counter looks up and blushes. “Um. Hello! Mr...Mr. Rollins. _And_ Mr. Reigns. You're just in time for your appointment.”

Roman is staring in abstracted thought at the décor, but he unclips the leash from Dean's collar while Seth is signing an autograph for the furiously blushing front-desk attendant and handing over Dean's vaccination papers. Dean paws at Roman's foot and whines, glancing mournfully at the grooming tables. _Don't make me go in there._

“And this is Janelle, she'll be taking care of Mox today.”

The groomer in question, a stocky woman with dyed red hair, looks Dean over critically—the long fur between his toes, the tufts, the mat of hopefully-not-blood on his stomach—and says, “Do you want a full styling, or just a trim to neaten everything up? If he didn't have that double coat I'd say shave him down, but that wouldn't help anything.”

At the word “shave,” Dean covers his face with his front paws, looking horrified.

“I don't think he needs to get styled today,” Seth says, grinning evilly. “Do you, boy?”

“Ok.” More critical examination. “You can pick him up at five, and I promise he'll be so neat and clean that you'll hardly recognize him.”

“C'mon, Mox.” Seth tugs Dean forward, towards the little gate leading into the main part of the salon. “Let's get this over with.”

The groomer scratches Deans ears as he trots in with a roll of his eyes. “He's pretty clever, isn't he?” She digs her fingers into the ruff of hair at his neck and he leans into her hands, sighing. “He almost looks like he could be part wolf.”

Roman laughs nervously. “Yeah, we hear that a lot.”

* * *

 

Pickup at five. Four and a half hours. And it's _Tuesday,_ so it's not like there's much going on.

Seth and Roman put some laundry in and call a cleaning service. Go to the gym. Snag a late lunch at a place Dean hates and argue genially about football.

The alarm on Roman's phone goes off at quarter of five. “Pick-up time, I guess.”

Dean is wearing a bandana when they pick him up.

He _does_ look sleek and trimmed, the loose clumps combed out, shampooed and radiant. Which is good. But they've also tied a jaunty black-and-red bandana around his neck, and Roman has to cover his mouth to stifle a laugh.

“He was _very_ good,” Janelle says, as she's letting Dean out of the salon proper. “We didn't even have to kennel him, he just sat and waited for you. I gave him the bandana because he was so nice. Weren't you, you charmer? Weren't you a sweet boy?”

Dean grins doggishly at Seth and Roman, tongue drooping from his mouth, and then sticks his nose in Janelle's crotch.

She swats him on the nose, gently—but she also laughs. “Don't be a creeper, you bad dog.”

* * *

 

On the way back to the house Dean _prances._

* * *

 

He shifts back up in the living room (now free of tufts thanks to a squad of professional cleaners) and stretches. The bandana is still knotted rakishly at his throat, hanging down over his t-shirt like he's a bank robber on break. “I still hate you both, but I _do_ feel better.” His hair is sleek and shiny, lying smoothed back on his head.

Seth reaches for him. “Shouldn't you ditch the neckerchief?”

He shies away. “No, fuck you, it's mine, she gave it to me.”

Roman frowns. “Don't you think it's a little—”

Dean starts _growling_ at him.

“Whoa, ok, ok, whatever you want.”

* * *

 

When he's getting undressed for bed that night the bandana stays on.

“Aren't you going to—”

“It's _mine._ ”

* * *

 

He's still wearing it a week later.

“Dean?”

_“Mine.”_

“Look, Dean—”

“ _My_ bandana.” Dean curls up protectively on the couch. “Not yours.”

“Man, getting groomed really brings out the dog side, doesn't it.”

Dean looks up at them through his eyelashes and grumbles, “I'm very pretty.”

“Aw, yeah you are.” Seth reaches out, dodges Dean's growl to scratch at the back of his neck under the bandana. “Who's a good boy?”

“Me,” Dean mutters, glaring when Roman snickers. “I'm a good boy. And I have a bandana to prove it.”


End file.
